


silky glistener

by notorious



Series: a flood of blood to the heart [3]
Category: Legacies (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Full Tribrid Hope, No Idea, do they even actually like each other?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23210257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notorious/pseuds/notorious
Summary: Hope is only truly scared of what she cannot control.Thus — she is never for a second afraid of Penelope Park.
Relationships: Hope Mikaelson/Penelope Park
Series: a flood of blood to the heart [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1666333
Comments: 7
Kudos: 99





	silky glistener

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LizMikaelson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizMikaelson/gifts).



> the third and probably final installment of the hope sucks her classmates dry series. never really written penelope before? idk don't yell at me. this is unedited bc it is 12:45am and i've tested positive for dumb bitch disease. and as is custom for these: title from bloodflood pt. ii by alt-j.
> 
> times are tuff so if you like what i do, consider buying me a "coffee" right [here](https://ko-fi.com/danceswithghosts) !!

Penelope Park was a fortress.

One Hope should’ve known better than to approach, let alone breach the boundary of and immerse herself in the territory of Salvatore’s favorite equal opportunity temptress.

Penelope didn’t make Hope weak, no, wasn’t that, but in the beginning she made her _think_ she was weak, and that was enough for Hope to have to prove her wrong.

It was the smirks, Hope thinks, and the cocked brows, and the holier-than-thou twinkle in those daring eyes. Penelope was dangerous then, once upon a time, when she still had the lesser half of the school wrapped around her little finger. When vendetta wouldn’t die and pettiness was king. When Hope still believed her to be scathing but strategic, vicious but virtuous.

Back when she was the poster child for needing to be knocked down a peg.

She’s harmless now, to Hope at least, because Hope’s _seen_ her and neither one of them can take that back. Not that either one of them would.

They wouldn’t.

Not a chance in hell.

Not after Hope’s gotten a taste of the sweetest thing Penelope has to offer.

Blood.

Warm and rich, thick, cut with a spell to make it spill onto the tongue like sweet tea into a chilled glass on a southern summer afternoon. After one single taste Hope decided she could drink Penelope by the liter if the witch let her.

But it’s not about letting any longer, because Penelope doesn’t let Hope do much of anything these days.

No.

She begs her to.

And Hope remembers the first time, the worst time, the time that almost got her expelled because Penelope kept telling her _keep going_ and _tank up_ , _Mikaelson_ , like it was nothing, like it wasn’t life or death, like there wasn’t a curious freshman spying on them through the trees out behind the old mill while the rest of the school drank itself dumb after finals.

When Penelope dropped, right before Hope caught her, the freshman took what he thought he saw and ran it right to Dr. Saltzman’s office. Until the next morning at breakfast when Penelope Park, very much smug and alive, sauntered in for breakfast, rumor had it that Hope’d killed a witch at the party.

They were careful after that.

And they still are, mostly, except for when it’s _late_ late on a Friday and the rest of the school’s too far fatigued to be woken by stray sounds of tousling and sucking and simmering where Hope’s skin warms Penelope’s.

The gasps and groans would not be so easy to explain away.

“Have you _still_ not learned to be quiet?” Hope hisses, low, a threat and a warning. Her tongue’s coated in crimson, her throat’s signing, fangs peeking out from under stained lips.

She’s been drinking, nice and slow, savoring each swallow for going on five minutes now. At such a pace she expects to last another ten before she’s got to wrench herself off Penelope’s throat just to make sure she doesn’t _actually_ kill her.

“No,” Penelope tells her, grinning, wide and bright, Cheshire-like, while her eyes go dark and her lids go heavy. “And you’d be a damn dirty liar to pretend you don’t know otherwise.”

Hope reckons she never should have gotten close to Penelope because now that she’s seen her weaknesses, now that she lives in the fortress, presides over it, there’s a sliver of her soul that lives to protect a witch she’d have burned at the stake mere months ago.

Josie makes her gentle.

Lizzie makes her bold.

Penelope turns her ravenous.

Mostly because she doesn’t worry about Penelope at all.

Which, all right, fuck it, is a lie — but it’s only untrue because when she _does_ worry about Penelope it’s usually got to do with who she’s plotting against and never about what they do together. Hope doesn’t worry about Penelope’s limits because there aren’t any on the spectrum in which Hope exists; she doesn’t worry about hurting her, playing with her feelings, or tugging at her heartstrings because they’ll be decomposing twice over and six feet under before Penelope ever gets over Josie.

Josie is a line Hope will never cross with Penelope. They’ve both had her, Hope still does sometimes, and Penelope never will again. So they don’t touch that subject.

Instead Penelope just touches Hope while she drinks from her, while she pleads with her to take as much as she pleases.

Fingers drift through auburn waves, thighs clamp around hips, hands fall to shoulders, to biceps, to the little sliver of skin that shows itself minutes after Hope’s pinned her on her back and stretched out above her and tugged her blouse up out of the band of her skirt in the process.

“Stop being gentle,” Penelope huffs, tugging at Hope’s waist, warm hands sneaking beneath her shirt to drag sharp nails across smooth skin.

Hope growls, grinds her hips down, trapping the witch against the mattress. “Quiet,” she says after a moment, when she lifts her chin to breathe deep, to catch her breath. She’s grinning something wicked, and her eyes are glowing bright and gold, and Penelope’s blood on her tongue in that moment tastes like roses and white chocolate.

“But you know I can take it.”

“You’re not wrong,” Hope admits, sinks her teeth back in, but stays gentle.

“ _Baby_ ,” Penelope whines.

“Don’t call me that.”

“...Big bad wolf?”

“I’ll leave,” Hope tells her.

“Daddy?”

“Goodbye.”

Hope’s halfway to the door when Penelope says, “You’re kind of the worst, you know that?”

In a millisecond she’s back in Penelope’s personal space, hand at her throat, eyes alight with fire again, lips curling to a snarl while once again fangs extend. “The worst _and_?”

Penelope blinks, smirks, lays a hand on Hope’s wrist and strokes into her palm with a thumb, tells her, “And I want you to rail me.”

“That’s rich.”

“The least you can do,” Penelope starts, reaching for Hope, pulling her in-between her knees at the edge of the bed, letting her head lull to let the open wound on her neck boast for itself, “is finish what you started.”

And Hope can’t say that’s not fair, no matter how much she likes telling Penelope _no_ , so that’s exactly what she does.

Eases the witch onto her back, takes her hands, pins them over her head, and tucks in again. Nuzzles into her neck like she isn’t about to finish feeding on what keeps Penelope alive, like she doesn’t have the power to end her life in an instant.

Hope would never, but Penelope likes it when she acts otherwise.

And she sounds so weak when she pleads, “ _Hope_ , please,” tugging at her wrists, but Hope won’t let them go, not yet, because when she opens her mouth to say, “Don’t act like you can’t feel me dripping,” she sounds smug again and that is not a tone the tribrid likes to reward.

Neither one of them is sure whether she means from her neck or her nethers, so Hope slips a knee between her thighs and presses in at the same time as her fangs pierce soft skin.

Bliss.

As much as the tribrid loves the taste of the witch on her tongue, as much as she’d kill for an endless supply, she thinks Penelope might like the high of being brought to life’s edge a bit better.

If there are any pegs left, Penelope’s knocked down another one each time she whines to be wounded, begs to be bled dry, and comes untouched when Hope sucks her to the edge of consciousness and keeps her there.

And as much as Hope would appreciate all Penelope has to offer in a bottomless blood bag, she figures an egotistic bottom is just as nice to have at her disposal.

**Author's Note:**

> idk come yell at me on twitter @TRIBRlD


End file.
